


Small belongings

by Gilli_ann



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, Innuendo, M/M, Oblivious, Sexual Frustration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-19 21:20:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10648272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gilli_ann/pseuds/Gilli_ann
Summary: While preparing to leave Rivendell, Sam packs various small belongings of his master's that have been forgotten, intending to bring them forth in triumph when Frodo needs them. But for the longest time he remains strangely clueless about Frodo's most pressing desire...





	Small belongings

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: LotR and its characters belong to the Tolkien estate. I intend no copyright infringement and make no profit from this.

_”Sam eased the pack on his shoulders, and went over anxiously in his mind all the things that he had stowed in it, wondering if he had forgotten anything: [ ]…. various small belongings of his master’s that Frodo had forgotten and Sam had stowed to bring them out in triumph when they were called for.”_  
The Ring Goes South, FotR

 

Sam’s first opportunity came almost two weeks out of Rivendell. They had been trudging along in the rather bleak landscape, day and night, and Mr. Frodo kept sending him inscrutable, searching looks. Well, no wonder if he was both worried and brooding, with the weight of Middle Earth dangling heavily on that chain around his neck. Mr. Frodo probably worried that Sam was seeing right through him. 

Sam noted with sadness that Mr. Frodo had resumed biting his fingernails, was biting them to the quick in fact. He'd given that particular nervous habit somewhat of a rest in Rivendell. 

But it wasn’t till after they’d all settled down for another comfortless night in the wilds that Sam realized just _how_ nervous Mr. Frodo was: He noticed his curled-up master doing something strange under his blanket – it seemed clear to Sam that he was in fact biting his _toe nails_ , what with his strangely contorted position under the blanket, and those small, furtive movements. 

Sam therefore determined that it was high time for him to triumphantly bring forth the first of Mr. Frodo’s small belongings, left behind by his master, but not forgotten by Sam: A treasured piece of craftsmanship, a beautiful pair of nail scissors with mother-of-pearl inlays. 

Mr. Frodo seemed to be resting quietly by the time Sam had managed to dig the scissors out of his backpack, but he was watching Sam surreptitiously. Sam noticed that out of the corner of his eye. 

As far as Sam could see in the poor light, Mr. Frodo sported a blush and a slight sheen of sweat on his fine pale skin. Obviously he was dreadfully embarrassed about having been spotted while being nervous enough to go biting his dirty toe nails! Sam didn’t blame him, not for being afraid, not for worrying. Perhaps he feared that Sam might make a comment on it, for all the Fellowship to hear and laugh. Though he should know that Sam would never dream of doing such a thing!

Sam padded noiselessly over in the gloom and held out the little treasure bashfully. “Look here, Mr. Frodo!” he whispered. “I brought your little scissors, so you don’t have to worry yourself about the length of them there toe nails! Would you let me help you cut them to proper size, like?”

He could clearly see now that Frodo wore a lovely pink flush, very becoming it was, in fact. Sam quickly ducked his head, but not before noticing how his master looked both dumbfounded and utterly awed at Sam's observational skills. And so, in the midst of the Fellowship’s chorus of many-pitched snores he gently and firmly took Frodo’s right foot in hand as soon as his master shyly had extended it out from under his blanket, and carefully snipped the nail of each toe short and even. He proceeded to do the same with Frodo’s left foot.

Having finished, he let the curly-haired foot out of his grip and gave it a little pat. “There! All done – you have no worries over those, now, Mr. Frodo. Your Sam will help you every time it’s necessary."

Mr. Frodo thanked him with a few whispered words, rather breathlessly it seemed to Sam, and then hurriedly curled into a tight little ball again under his blanket. No wonder. Mr. Frodo clearly was extremely worn out as well as dreadfully nervous and troubled. Sam carefully hid the scissors away in his sack and settled down to get some rest himself.

***

A few days later, while climbing the lower slopes of Caradhras, Sam saw his next opportunity. Mr. Frodo had taken To the habit of walking beside him all the time, looking very much like he was wanting to have a say about something. But nothing came of it except some unintelligible mutters now and then. 

Sam noticed Mr. Frodo kept sending Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin annoyed and nearly angry glances. The two of them kept very close to Frodo and Sam with Bill all the time, and were chattering amicably and incessantly, always trying to draw Frodo into their conversation. Sam could understand how their constant presence, their banter and nonsense might grate on Mr. Frodo’s troubled nerves. He admired the fact that Mr. Frodo held back on the telling-off he no doubt longed to spew forth to his cousins, limiting himself to a few muttered words. They sounded almost like curse-words in fact, though Sam was sure he had to be mishearing that. 

Happily, Sam realized that he had just the thing Mr. Frodo needed. Originally it had been a gift to his master from the elves, to be used during the treks that the hobbits had made around Rivendell shortly after Mr. Frodo had recovered: Ear muffs, beautifully made and covered with the softest rabbit fur Sam had ever touched. He stopped Bill in order to dig through his backpack, and proudly displayed the fluffy item in question. 

“Mr. Frodo, you just put these ear muffs on, and your little ears will be snug as bugs. You’ll not be able to hear a word from anyone, and your ears will keep warm, too!”

Mr. Frodo blushed with gratitude, Sam was happy to note; - a distinctly lovely shade of pink. He stepped up to Mr. Frodo to help him fit the muffs on. Frodo had to be much colder than Sam had realized – he was even shivering slightly, and his hands were next to useless, gliding softly and ineffectually over Sam’s own, no doubt because of the cold. Sam had to do all the work. Mr. Frodo gave him a lovely smile of thanks, and Sam congratulated himself at his own foresight in bringing the ear muffs along. Mr. Frodo was a most wondrous sight with those muffs. The warm caress of the rabbit fur seemed to bring out a similarly warm and luminous shine in Frodo’s eyes, Sam noted with delight.

***

Higher up it started to snow, and soon they were wading heavily through the cold white stuff, nearly having to swim through it in places. Frodo obviously was both tired and cold, ear muffs notwithstanding, and Sam was worried. Walking in the middle of the Fellowship, directly behind the two tall men, Mr. Frodo continued to keep very close to Sam, trudging along right in front of him, then falling back to a position just behind his left shoulder. Now and then he even stumbled into his gardener.

As the wind howled, and the fall of wind-whipped snow increased, and the visibility became increasingly poor, Mr. Frodo even started holding on to Sam’s arm. Then he slid his hands past Sam’s left arm and under Sam’s cloak, letting his open palms press heavily against Sam’s flank, no doubt to warm them there. 

“Sam, I hope you don’t mind this?” Frodo shouted into Sam’s ear, which surely was as red from the cold as Frodo’s cheeks. Sam could only shake his head vigorously. Mr. Frodo wouldn’t be hearing a spoken reply anyway, not with the howling wind and those ear muffs. Sam noticed that the snow seemed to be bothering Mr. Frodo’s right eye. His master had to blink more than once during the brief time it took him to shout his question. 

Yes, it really was dreadfully cold, and Mr. Frodo’s frozen hands sent shivers running up and down his skin through the cloth of his shirt. 

Suddenly Sam remembered the warm woolen mittens he’d brought along for his master, another of those small belongings Mr. Frodo had forgotten to pack. While words such as numbscull and ninnyhammer came to his mind, Sam scolded himself severely for not having remembered those mittens earlier. Now he hastily unhooked himself from Mr. Frodo, unpacked the mittens as quickly as he could, and had Mr. Frodo put them on. Then he grasped the mitten-covered hands with his own and rubbed them vigorously, wanting to be sure to put some warmth into them. As far as he could see, it helped. Mr. Frodo had a real healthy and rosy flush on his face all of a sudden, and he was smiling in the middle of the blizzard. He blinked his right eye several times again, probably wanting to remove the snowflakes that kept landing on his long lashes. 

“Sam, you’re too good for me,” Frodo shouted into Sam’s ear. “You always see to it that I’m kept blazingly hot. You’re the flint to my tinder – a true kindler among hobbits!”

Sam found no words in return to such fancy high-faluting praise, but squeezed Mr. Frodo’s hands especially hard for those nice words. 

He did after all try to see to it that Frodo was kept snug and warm at all times, and he was happy that Frodo recognized it.

***

But however warm Frodo was, the trek up Caradhras ended in disaster, and they had to turn around and to brave the Mines of Moria instead. Sam had other things besides Mr. Frodo on his mind for a little while, worrying over Bill Their poor pony had to be left alone and defenseless out in the wilds, with wolves howling all around.

Frodo seemed to sense his distress, and kept close so as to be able to comfort Sam. He'd regularly pat Sam on the hand or give him a kind hug as the Fellowship walked in a tight pack through the dwarves’ pitch-black passages and climbed their dark crumbling stairs with nothing but Gandalf’s illuminated staff as a guiding light. 

Nobody spoke much, since sound was magnified and every word carried a long way into the darkness. Their silent marches were long and very tiring. 

Sam was concerned when Mr. Frodo seemed to start stumbling slightly again, bumping into him and sometimes accidentally putting his hands on the most awkward of Sam's body parts to keep from falling. At other times Frodo would just lean gently on Sam’s arm for a little while as they marched on, rubbing it to ensure the blood circulation wasn’t restrained by his grip. Clearly Mr. Frodo didn’t want to alert the rest of the Fellowship to his own footsore weariness, but trusted Sam to support him while keeping his secret. 

In the soft diffused light it was difficult for Sam to look Mr. Frodo over properly, but making an effort he thought that Frodo looked both pale and red. Pale due to exhaustion, Sam figured, yet with that soft blush of red on his cheeks that usually appeared whenever Sam happened to notice that he was feeling miserable in some way. Mr. Frodo was proud, Sam knew, and he clearly didn’t want to go burdening nobody else, neither.

This was the opportunity Sam had been waiting for. He produced another of Frodo's small treasures that he had brought along: A tiny vial of precious jasmine-scented massage oil, a remedy that Sam had become well acquainted with when being instructed in how to tend to his recuperating master’s needs by the elves of Rivendell. They’d left Mr. Frodo a fair supply of various oils and essences, although Sam unfortunately could bring very little of it along on the journey.

Once they’d stopped for some food and a bit of rest, Sam located what he needed, and slithered up next to Mr. Frodo to display a small vial.

“Pardon, Mr. Frodo, but I couldn’t help noticing how you’ve got very sore feet, seemingly. Would you let your Sam ease them with a good foot rub and proper massage?” 

Sam felt more keenly than he saw how Mr. Frodo blushed again, a very lovely rose red. He nodded and squeezed Sam’s vial-less hand as a token of “yes”. 

It had to be a nuisance living with such tender skin, flushing every shade of pink at the tiniest of provocations! Sam ducked his head to pretend he hadn’t noticed, and set to work.

He uncorked the vial, releasing a delightful scent that floated on the still air around them, and poured some oil out onto his hands. Rubbing them briskly together to spread the oil, he set to work on Frodo’s right foot. Kneading, pressing, caressing and stroking, he deftly started easing the tired soreness away.

Mr. Frodo sighed with pleasure, loudly and quite delightfully. Sam grinned a little. Sound really did carry in the deep caverns of Moria, and the sigh came whispering back at them from every wall, with echoes losing themselves in repetition in the vast darkness.

“What’s _up_ , cousin Frodo?” Mr. Pippin whispered cheekily from a little way away. “You sound for all the world like you’re having one of _those_ dreams again!”

“Hush, Pip, and go to sleep! We could all of us do with a little privacy and dreams now and then,” Merry scolded from his place next to Pippin, in whispered tones that nevertheless carried through the dark. 

A strangled snort or two sounded from the men’s quarter. Sam wasn’t sure whether it was Aragorn or Boromir who’d just…. grunted? Laughed? Harrumped? 

Gimli, however, kept snoring loudly and evenly, and Gandalf kept his own silent counsel and made no comment at all. Legolas was over by the gateway, standing guard. Sam wondered how much the elf could see in the dark. Probably enough to notice Mr. Frodo’s lovely blushes. Watching those could be quite… nice. Invigorating, in a way. 

Sam paid the rest of the Fellowship no more mind, but shifted his focus to Frodo’s other foot, and gave it the same diligent and thorough massage job. Mr. Frodo was breathing audibly and rapidly, almost whimpering with suppressed delight, at one point giving a little joyful squeak. Clearly he was benefiting from the wholesome nature of the elven oil. Sam was most pleased when he finally let go, carefully drying off both Mr. Frodo’s feet with a piece of cloth. 

Having finished his service, he curled up next to his master to get some sleep. Immediately a soft puff of air crossed his face, then another, and he realized Mr. Frodo was breathing on him. He was so close that his mouth very nearly touched Sam’s cheek.

“Thank you, Sam,” Frodo mouthed into Sam’s ear. “That rub was just what I needed. You’re a wonder. A veritable diamond in the rough! I hope we can do it again sometime soon.”

Sam was disappointed when Frodo lay back down. For a moment there he’d thought that Frodo might actually…. He pushed the thought away. Fanciful dreaming was not for such a one as him. His gaffer would have been scandalized and would not have saved his breath nor his hoard of choice paternal sayings in telling him off. Sam drew the blanket over his head and willed himself into sleep.

***

What with all the terrifying events of the following days, Mr. Gandalf falling into the abyss, and all that fighting and fleeing from orcs and dreadful fire monsters, Sam had no opportunity to display another small treasure of Frodo’s for a while.

During their sojourn in the soft light of Lothlorien all their needs were seen to by beautiful and graceful elves; - comfort and care were provided in abundance. The Fellowship lived together, and kept close, now silent, now talking about sorrow and memories. 

There was neither need nor place for Sam Gamgee to tend to his master especially. He almost felt a little miffed at that. Frodo kept silent. Sam wondered whether his master was miffed too, or if he was just too sunk in sorrow over Mr. Gandalfs dreadful fate to notice.

***

It wasn’t till they’d been on the river for some days that Sam’s next opportunity came. Mr. Frodo was squirming uneasily, while frequently staring at Sam, who was sitting in front of him in the boat. Frodo was working up a blush again, and practically _writhing_ there on his thwart. Sam worried over this mysterious twisting and squirming. It probably had something to do with Mr. Frodo worrying his head over what to do, and which way to go, and how to leave some of them behind once they reached these Falls of Rauros that Mr. Strider had told them about.

They could hear the din of the waterfalls now, far away. 

But Sam figured that the squirming might in fact have more to do with uncomfortably grubby, itching, chafing clothes. For all the care he’d taken to make Mr. Frodo change his linens on occasion during their journey, wringing the used ones out in cold water as soon as he got the chance, everything they wore by now was well-used and rough to the touch, obviously irritating Mr. Frodo’s delicate skin and rubbing it raw and sore. 

Having observed his squirming master for what seemed like hours, complete with the occasional desperately pleading look his way, Sam decided it was finally time to bring forth his big surprise gift. Scooting over to Mr. Frodo, very careful so as to not be upsetting the boat, he leant over to whisper in Frodo’s ear. 

Strider cast a long, considering look their way, smiling smugly to himself, but soon had to turn his attention back to the paddle he was wielding and the treacherous currents of the Great River. 

“Mr. Frodo, I couldn’t help but notice how you’ve been squirming a lot, all uneasy-like. Once we get ashore, I have something very special for you to help you with the itching.” 

To Sam’s surprise, Frodo made a start and actually turned a deep beet red, his mouth opening in an astounded and delighted “O”, though no sound emerged. 

“Have you guessed it, Mr. Frodo? I’ve got one of those rare elvish silk underpants for you. It's shiny new, made in hobbit-size by the best tailor in Rivendell. I told him it was to be a surprise gift, so he worked it in secret. That soft silk will feel like a tender caress all over your……. uhm, ah, oh, well…. it will feel lovely,” he ended awkwardly. 

Perhaps Mr. Frodo was shocked, thinking him way too forward with such talk, nearly mentioning his bottom and his privates right out loud! It was Sam’s turn to blush in his turn.

“Thank you, Sam,” Mr. Frodo finally managed to choke out. He sounded all but strangled and didn’t look quite as happy as Sam had expected. He rather looked confounded, truth be told. 

Well, once Mr. Frodo felt the intimate caress of the silk, he’d light up ever so much, Sam felt absolutely sure about that. Difficult decisions and terrible choices or no, he’d feel all the better for a little touch of luxury here in the foreign grubby wilderness.

***

But once again circumstances conspired to keep Sam from taking proper care of his master. It was all such a blur of discussions and arguments, and Mr. Frodo disappearing, and everyone running haphazard-like in every direction, and screams and shouts all around, and loud horn-blowing, and Mr. Frodo nearly leaving him behind, and him nearly drowning to keep by his master’s side.

It wasn’t till they’d reached the other side of the river, and had hidden their boat, and had walked a goodly way and were more than ready for their first proper rest, that Sam decided the time had come. He could return to to return to handing over the special gift. 

Frodo had walked a little in front, stepping behind some bushes for a little privacy, and Sam opened his sack to locate the silken gift, shaking it out, letting his hand glide admiringly over its softness with a pleased little hum in his throat. At the same time he couldn’t resist doing a quick yet thorough inventory of his well-stuffed backpack. There were the clothes and blankets, of course, and the pots and pans and the lembas, and the box of salt. His stomach rumbled. As for the rest, all the remaining little treasures - for so he called these belongings in his mind - he laid them carefully out one by one on the ground. 

The grey, supple elven-rope of Lothlorien, of course. A vial of elven clove salve, intended for the soothing and healing of chapped or raw skin. A beautiful and shimmering long silk scarf, more pretty than actually useful here out in the wilds, but enticingly soft. Sam hoped he’d somehow find a use for it. A metal ring, larger than a finger ring but not as large as a bracelet – it was Sam’s little memento of Bill, having formed part of the pony’s harness. A tiny oblong metal case with a feather pen and a tiny vial of ink inside – lovely elvish craftsmanship, that. Sam had once hoped that his master might manage to jot down some notes on the journey. He knew by now that it was not to be, but he still thought the feather pen too beautiful to just leave it behind. He couldn’t resist touching and tickling the skin of his hand a little with the long feather – such a pleasantly teasing feeling!

“Well, I’m ready,” a soft voice said behind him. Sam nearly jumped out of his skin. Mr. Frodo had approached like a ghost. Sam turned and felt his jaw drop. He gaped, astounded.

Frodo was standing before him wearing no clothes at all, not a single stitch. He looked like a vision out of a fairy tale. Sam gulped. Strangely enough, for once Mr. Frodo wore no blush at all. Instead he looked very determined, eyes hot with knowing want, mouth softly smiling over a firmly set jaw. 

“My dearest Sam. The matter you mentioned earlier, in the boat? I’m quite ready and willing now, as you can see.”

“Ready?” Sam squeaked, blushing and feeling his knees turn to soft jelly. Other parts of him embarrassingly decided to even matters Through the exact opposite reaction, though.

Frodo stepped closer, smiling bewitchingly, letting his luminous eyes meet Sam’s unabashedly before they moved slowly over the rest of him from top to curling toes.

“I’m more than ready, and so are you, I’m happy to see. I’ve been holding back most foolishly, and you….. pardon me, Sam, but you’ve been behaving so utterly cluelessly, I didn’t know _what_ to think! We should really both get a prize for first-class stupidity! But there are no-one here now except the two of us to hand out prizes.” 

Sam blushed even harder than before. Mr. Frodo by far surpassed the chief prize of any Shire fair Sam had ever attended. He suddenly knew without a doubt that there was no prize he’d rather like to win, no treasure he’d rather have for his very own.

“Finally we’re all alone, and no-one will be the wiser if you ….help me. With that itch you mentioned. And I certainly would like to help you in return,” Frodo murmured, taking another step forward, his foot touching something soft on the ground: The silk scarf. He looked down, and gazed at Sam’s display of small belongings and beloved, modest treasures with delighted surprise. 

“You’ve brought along everything we could possibly ever need! Sam, you’re a marvel! Don’t you know how much I love you?” He reached out to squeeze Sam’s hands tenderly. 

“Who knows what tomorrow will bring? Shouldn’t we enjoy and share everything that’s valuable to us, here and now, without delaying any more?”

Sam heartily agreed. He had always believed in his gaffer’s “waste not, want not” philosophy, after all. Stepping into Frodo’s embrace without further ado, he whispered, rather incoherently: “Oh, yes….we should….oh, yes, _oh please!_ ” Then his mouth became otherwise occupied, and no more words or comments or explanations were necessary for either of them in their mutual, delightfully exciting treasure-hunt. 

 


End file.
